Is That A Shillelagh, Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Whenever I hear a commotion on the roof of The House on the Hill, I know it’s one of two things, Modern Philosophers.

And neither option is good.

Either the Ghosts who live in my attic are freaking out and having flashbacks to the nineteenth century again, or someone very stupid has decided to pick a fight with my ferocious Gargoyle.

I charged up the attic stairs and discovered the Woodbury clan calmly enjoying a twenty-first century afternoon, so I knew it had to be Gargoyle trouble.  I said my hellos to the Ghosts, and climbed out onto the roof.

“What the hell is going on up here?” I demanded of Gary, my loyal Gargoyle, who was not on his perch at the edge of the roof.

Instead, Gary was jumping backyards across the roof and flapping his wings at an unseen intruder as a pack of Flying Monkeys circled overhead and watched in amusement.

I shooed away the Flying Monkeys before directing another question at Gary.

“Gary, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying my best to not crush the skull of this annoying little Irish pest,” Gary bellowed and then stepped aside to give me a better view.

Seamus, Maine’s only Leprechaun and this blog’s Sports reporter, was wildly swinging his shillelagh at my Gargoyle’s head.

“Stop moving, so I can bash ya bloody head in!” Seamus slurred as he took another swing at Gary.

“If he doesn’t pass out soon, I’m going to snatch him up and drop him in the river from a very high altitude,” Gary warned.

“Seamus, that’s enough!” I roared as I stormed across the roof and grabbed the angry redhead by the collar of his green jacket.  “Drop the shillelagh and calm down!”

Despite my having a tight grip on him, the little bastard kept swinging his big stick like Gary was a pinata filled with beer.

“I’m trying to protect ya,” Seamus mumbled.  “Ya got a major bat problem and I’m using me shillelagh to rid ya of the vermin.”

“Did he just call me a bat?” Gary growled.

I signaled for Gary to back off.  Even though he did not want to, a Gargoyle must obey the person to whom he has pledged his loyalty.

Gary shot up into the afternoon sky, and I used the distraction to disarm Seamus and toss his shillelagh across the roof.

“That’s the largest, ugliest bat me Irish eyes have ever seen,” he informed me and then sank to his knees.

I released him, and the drunk Leprechaun curled up in the fetal position on the roof.

“How did you get up here?” I asked as I sat down next to him.

Meanwhile, Gary returned to his perch at the edge of the roof, shot Seamus a dirty look, and then turned his back on us to keep watch over the street.

“I was at Three Toads & A Wicked Lass,” Seamus began to explain.  “Having a pint…”

“Or seven!” Gary shouted back over his shoulder.

This caused Seamus to sit up, which made him woozy, and fall right back over again.

“Seven is me lucky number, lad,” he told me as I helped him to sit up again.  “Ya know how the Irish are about luck.”

“I most certainly do,” I answered as I kept my arm around him to offer both emotional and physical support in his intoxicated time of need.

“I didn’t want to be late for work, so I asked the monkeys to give me a lift,” he continued as he studied an oddly colored stain on his tie.  “Good thing I did cuz that’s when I came across ya bat infestation.”

“Call me a bat one more time, and I will drop you off in Munchkinland,” Gary growled from his perch.

“You came here to work?” I asked in confusion as I ignored Gary’s threat.

“Of course, lad.  The Fighting Irish return to the pitch tonight, so I’ve got to write me post predicting the outcome of the match,” he answered and struggled to stand.

His tiny, drunk legs just refused to support him, however.  He crashed back down onto the shingles, so I helped him back into an upright position.

“I hadn’t heard from you in months, so I didn’t think you were still interested in writing your column,” I told him honestly.

Well, not completely honestly.  I had been hoping he’d forgotten about his job, and was prepared to move ahead without him.

“I’d never abandon ya, lad,” Seamus vowed with a smile that lit up his sweaty little face.  “And I can’t abandon me lads from South Bend, now can I?”

I had to smile. Seamus’ love for Notre Dame was even stronger than my own.  Clearly, the Fighting Irish reminded him of his beloved homeland, which he missed so much.

“How about you just tell me your prediction, and I’ll write the post?” I suggested.

“Aye.  That might be for the best,” he said as he fished a few stray bar nuts out of his vest pocket and popped them into his mouth.

One of them missed, though, and became a prisoner of his unruly beard.

“What’s the final score going to be?” I prodded him as I stared at the beard nut.

“Despite the change at quarterback, I predict Irish eyes will be smiling in South Bend tonight, and pints will be raised in toast to a Notre Dame victory,” he informed me.  “Make it 35-14 in favor of the lads in blue and gold.”

With that, he passed out.

The Leprechaun Predicts: Notre Dame 35 – Texas 14.

Let’s go Irish!